A gilded mane of familiarity,

her hair like wheat

so reserved when

pulled back in bushels.

 

For so long this was the woman I knew,

a waitress, waiting to serve others

and never quite satisfying herself.

But that’s what she became, typical

stay at home mom.

Open for all to take their turn to

ask a question,

demand an answer,

expect dinner.

 

It was he who shall not be named

who did this,

‘M’ did this to her.

Black was his lack of hair

found on his back and in his mustache.

That Mr. Rogers mother fucker.

 

She was a woman holding back passion and

the will to move on. Escape

from the abortion eating,

shit drinking,

corpse fucking,

butcher bastard.

 

He raped my mother of her personality.

ravished her smile—

gold dims to gray.

 

Until she met him.

 

A dented smile,

resonated in his eyes.

A bullet-ridden heart,

I could see through his chest.

And some gray in his hair, too.

 

Vicious vultures cower

sterlings sprout for song

and the wild horses run again.

 

For the first time in years

my mother is taken care of

and given the roses she deserves.

 

Finally,

her hair falls, to the middle

of her back. A sea of grain

replaces the faded ashes.

My mother is a mare once more.